The Assassination Affair Read online

  Chapter 2

  "A Spy in the Ointment"

  SOLO MADE the drive quickly, keeping to the law and the traffic signals, but eager to get to Waverly and chase the shudder out of his system. He hadn't gone two blocks before he knew he was being followed. It was a black Cadillac, and the license numbers were invisible. He wished fervently for a police car to notice the absence of the numbers and pull the Cadillac over, but it didn't happen.

  Evasive action was unnecessary, he decided. Whoever was after him already knew everything about him - his apartment, his whereabouts during the day - so they knew U.N.C.L.E., too. It would do no harm to lead them to Del Floria's and if he tried to lose them, he'd also lose time. The Cadillac hung back a full two blocks, so he simply increased his speed to gain more distance and headed on.

  He pulled up in front of Del Floria's with a squeal of tires, jumped out of the car, and sprinted to the steps that led down into the tailor shop. Once inside, he was going to stride directly into the back booth, but Del Floria gestured him to a quick halt.

  Del Floria said, "Did you know you have blood on your face?"

  Solo felt the dried flakes of blood that coated his temple where the shoe had hit him. "Huh! I forgot. Thanks. There's no sense in alarming the girl at the desk, is there?" He took out his handkerchief and rubbed the dried blotch.

  Del Floria took the cloth from him, moistened it in the steam from his pressing machine and handed it back, shoving a mirror forward with his other hand.

  Solo wiped the blood clean to find just a slight cut under it. Three days and it would be gone. "The thing is," he said as he dabbed, "there are unwelcome guests coming close behind me so I'd better clear out before they cause you trouble."

  "The door is ready when you are," Del Floria said. The sound of a car pulling up outside, and then another immediately after it, thrust Solo's hand inside his coat. It came out with his gun. "Too late. Maybe it would be best for me to hold them off here than to leave them to you."

  Solo took a semi-sheltered position near the counter, but he had barely slipped the safety off his gun when one car roared away and running footsteps came down the stairs. A girl's footsteps.

  At the first sight of her, Solo holstered his gun again. It was Lainy. She ran into the shop, breathless, calling, "Mr. Solo! Mr. Solo!" She stopped still when she saw him.

  "I thought you were safe at home with your cat!" Solo said angrily.

  "I followed you. And it's a good thing I did, too. You just can't seem to take proper care of yourself at all. Those same two men were right behind you; did you know that?"

  "I was aware of it, yes."

  "Oh." She was disappointed. "But I did do some good. Because I followed them and when they stopped out side I jumped out of my cab and stood on the sidewalk and stared at them. Nasty looking things. But I stared at them so they knew they were identified and they didn't dare make a move with a witness around, so they left."

  "They're gone?" Solo asked.

  "Gone."

  "Great!" Solo said through his teeth. "And you are some kind of a blue-eyed idiot. While you were getting your look at them, they were getting a good look at you! Didn't you stop to think they might connect you with me now? That they might threaten you?" He slapped his hand down on the counter hard, resigned. "I'll have to see you home. There's no other way. I can't have you playing cops and robbers in the streets alone."

  Del Floria cleared his throat meaningfully, and when Solo looked at him, the old man simply pointed a finger upward and his lips formed a silent word, "Waverly.

  "It's that important?" Solo asked him.

  "He said immediately," Del Floria answered. "You can't take anyone home."

  Lainy interrupted, "What are you talking about? Honestly, you two act like a bunch of spies or something."

  "I warned you, Lainy," Solo told her, "and don't forget it when you find the going rough. Come on, little girl, you're in this and in it you'll stay." He took hold of her elbow and guided her to the dressing booth, signaling Del Floria to activate the automatic door. Solo pushed Lainy into the booth, one arm around her shoulders, closed the curtains, turned the coat hanger, and the door swung open into the silver-gray interior of U.N.C.L.E. He pulled Lainy through with him and watched her open-mouthed gasp as the door whispered shut be hind them, encircling them in the special inner world of security, counter-plotting, and counter-espionage.

  He let go of her and walked to the desk where the receptionist was waiting with a badge, her fingers activating its chemicals as she held it. He leaned over and allowed her to pin it on his lapel. As she finished, she brushed one last bit of blood from his temple, murmuring, "Trouble, trouble."

  "Always. That's the name of the game." He pointed to the rack of badges. "I'll need another one of those for my friend here. A white one."

  The receptionist handed one over and Solo took it to Lainy, attaching it to her dress carefully. She had recovered enough to be curious. "What is this place?" she demanded.

  Beyond the receptionist, the main door into U.N.C.L.E. slid open and Illya Kuryakin came through. "When I saw the gun come out in Del Floria's I started down to give you a hand," Illya told Solo. "But what is this turn of events?" He looked at Lainy.

  "I've brought a little bloodhound for you, Illya. Handle her with care."

  Lainy stood between them, peering from one to the other, shaken.

  Illya bobbed his head, accepting her presence and his responsibility for it. He said, "Your orders, Napoleon, are to make a fast verbal report to Mr. Waverly, and then dictate a written report. After that you can join us for details."

  Solo grinned. "And how did Mr. Waverly know I had anything to report?"

  "The blood-washing was flashed through the building, my friend."

  "Right. But do take care of this one for me." He pushed Lainy forward. "There's not a thing in her head but good intentions." He started away, then turned back. "Her name is Lainy Michaels. She can tell you the rest - if you'll believe it. This is Illya, Lainy. He's friendly, so don't let his frowns frighten you." Solo hurried away out of sight of the big blue eyes set in the white face of Lainy Michaels. It was a rude introduction to U.N.C.L.E., and he would have liked to go with her and ease her first encounter, but he knew Illya would be just as taken with her vulnerability as he had been and handle her gently. For the moment, Mr. Waverly was waiting. That couldn't be allowed to continue.

  ---

  The reports at last completed, Solo stopped outside Waverly's office to straighten his coat, then took the step that activated the sliding doors, and entered. He stopped again. The room before him was charged with tension.

  Mr. Waverly sat in his normal place by the revolving table, the bank of control buttons close at his fingertips. As he glanced up, his eyes held their usual cool look, but they were tired. That was rare in itself, for Mr. Waverly seldom showed fatigue, seeming to have an in exhaustible store of energy that prodded his agents with an imagined whisper of, "If an old man like myself can keep going, I want no groans of effort from you." But now Mr. Waverly appeared to be under a more than usual strain.

  Illya sat close to him, fiddling with a pencil, and across the table, extremely alone and small in the cheer less room, sat Lainy. Solo immediately caught the implication of the handkerchief she was twisting in her hands. The girl was frightened.

  Waverly said, "All finished with the report, Mr. Solo?"

  "Yes, sir," Solo said, still staring at Lainy. As his inquiring eyes met hers, Lainy's changed from fright to accusation.

  Waverly ignored the by-play. "Sit down, then, and you can have the rest of the information."

  Solo resisted the habit that impelled him toward his accustomed place and went, instead, to sit by Lainy so she wouldn't feel so dismally alone. But he asked no questions. This was Mr. Waverly's show.

  Waverly gazed at him coolly. "To put it bluntly, we were brought the announcement of your death. Shortly before I called you. It startled us considerably."

/>   Solo grunted and smiled, but it wasn't a sincere smile. "It was brought into Del Floria's by a woman," Illya said. "She claimed that a great hulk of a man in a taxi gave her the envelope with the charm in it and asked her to deliver it since he was in a hurry. She was to say it was for Mr. Waverly. Well, she delivered it out of kindness, Del Floria detained her at the mention of Mr. Waverly's name, and once we saw what she had, we questioned her. But she was what she said - innocent." Illya's blue eyes rested on Solo, puzzled, and perhaps a bit relieved.

  Mr. Waverly took the story up. "And then you came in with this young woman, and –"

  Lainy interrupted him. "And I've had the third degree!" She swiveled to stare at Solo, angry. "I've explained over and over again to these two… men why I followed you here, but they won't believe me. If someone is out to harm you, I have nothing to do with it. Nothing!"

  Solo patted her hand. "Of course you haven't"

  "It's always wise to be so certain," Illya said quietly.

  "I'm not certain about anything!" Solo was surprised at the vehemence of his own tone, but the day, the night, and the constant mystery had built to a frustration he had to blow off somehow. "I'm not especially happy about anything, either. Going down fighting is one thing. Ambush is another!"

  "Assassination is the proper word, I believe." Illya remained maddeningly calm. "Anyway, we've begun our investigation. Miss Michaels appears to be what she claims - a young girl with more money than she knows how to spend, and with an eye out for adventure."

  "A lot you know!" Lainy shouted at him, and immediately began to cry, depositing more tears into the hand kerchief that was already soggy.

  Solo put an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the impatient sighs that came from around the table. "What have you been doing to this girl?" he demanded. "I told you to handle her gently, Illya."

  "We had to be thorough," Illya said defensively. "She showed up twice with the men who attacked you. We had to question her. After all, it's your life we're trying to preserve."

  Lainy stopped crying long enough to babble out, "They say someone is frying to kill you. It isn't me! Truly, it isn't."

  "I'm sure of that," Solo told her.

  "But Mr. Waverly says I have to stay here inside this building until something is settled."

  "For her own safety," Mr. Waverly explained.

  "He's right, Lainy,' Solo said.

  "But I have to be home!"

  "No one has to be home," Illya said definitely.

  "I do!" She turned back to Solo, still trusting him. "My cat, Mr. Solo. I told you about my cat. She'll be alone, and -" She dabbed at her eyes, angry with the tears.

  "Don't worry about your cat," Solo told her. "We'll detail someone to go to your apartment at least twice a day to feed her, play with her, and tell her you'll soon be back." He caught Mr. Waverly's disgusted glance but refused to acknowledge it.

  "Will you really do that?" Lainy sat up.

  "Turn your big eyes on Mr. Waverly. He's the one with the final say.

  She did as she was told, swiveling to face the man whose decisions held more importance than she could even guess. "Mr. Waverly?"

  Waverly looked at her and then down at the table. He harrumphed once and surrendered. "We'll see to your cat, Miss Michaels. It's not exactly in our line, but we'll see to her. And you have nothing to fear here, you know. You'll be well treated." He pressed a button on his inter com. "I want someone in here immediately to get Miss Michaels settled. She's to have red-carpet treatment."

  A voice came through the speaker. "Yes, sir. I'll attend to it myself."

  Lainy smiled. "You're not an ogre after all, are you?"

  The door whisked open and one of Waverly's secretaries marched in. Lainy stood up hesitantly, her hand on Solo's shoulder, asking for reassurance. Solo winked at her. She left in the secretary's wake, docile, timid, but willing.

  As the door closed, Illya clucked. "You do pick up strange little creatures, don't you, Napoleon?"

  Solo glanced across the table at him. "You didn't actually browbeat her, did you?"

  "Mr. Solo - please," Waverly chided. "You know better than that."

  "Yes, sir." Solo cleared his throat, pushing Lainy out of his mind. She would be led into the deep reaches of U.N.C.L.E., given a pleasant room, a hot bath, food if she wanted it - she would be fine. For himself, there was still a mystery to solve. "Now, where is this charm, or whatever, you were talking about?"

  Mr. Waverly reached into an envelope that had remained menacingly before him and pulled out a little piece of metal. "We couldn't make sense of it at first. Now it's quite clear." He sent the charm around to Solo on the revolving table.

  Solo picked it up and laid it in the palm of his hand. A charm it definitely was - something a woman might wear on a bracelet - heavy like lead, but covered with a thick gold patina. Yet no woman would ever wear this particular charm; he shuddered, because it was formed in the shape of a coffin.

  "Read what's written on the back," Illya told him.

  Solo turned the coffin over. He read, "Number One in Section Two, ad infinitum - one by one. It was supposed to announce my death, all right. They were certain they couldn't miss. But this other part - one by one, ad infinitum... In other words, it's not only me, but my position in U.N.C.L.E. they're after. They want my job vacant." His brown eyes came up slyly, meeting Illya's.

  "Don't look at me, Napoleon; I'm not anxious for a promotion."

  "It's a strange little charm," Waverly said. "Not very beautiful, really."

  "It's a herald of death," Illya said somberly. "Never a pretty subject for art."

  "But why? That's the problem, Mr. Solo. Why are you being privately attacked? There's nothing big going on with Thrush. We've had no Intelligence."

  "Then U.N.C.L.E. has goofed for once." Solo let the charm drop from his hand as though it were hot. "Someone is trying to kill me. I want to be pulled off everything else so I can concentrate on who and why."

  "A very bad idea," Mr. Waverly said. "If this is what it appears to be - an attempt at assassination - you'll be walking into a trap the moment you set foot outside Headquarters. Nothing in your apartment will be safe for you to touch anymore."

  "If you'll pardon me for saying it," Solo said stubbornly, "I've always been expendable before, so -"

  Mr. Waverly was stern. "Expendability on an assignment is one thing. To be cut down in the street by lunatics is another."

  "I can look after myself, sir."

  "Yes. And incidentally, how was it that those men managed to get into your apartment in the first place? Is there something wrong with the alarm system on your terrace?"

  Solo felt his face flush and fought to control it. He had personally disconnected the terrace alarms. But he had thought it would be a normal evening, that Rachel might step outside for some air, and he didn't want alarms going off all over the place and scaring her.

  Mr. Waverly went damningly on. "This isn't the first time you've disconnected your alarm system, is it, Mr. Solo?

  "No, sir," he admitted.

  "But it will be the last."

  "Yes, sir." He stared hard at his hands, taking the chastisement as he had to take it. He had been off base. But Mr. Waverly wouldn't belabor the point.

  As predicted, Waverly changed the subject abruptly. "This is an insidious thing. I'm assigning Mr. Kuryakin to the case. In the meantime, you'll stay inside the building - night and day. Whoever it is, he's declared all-out war on us. We won't have an organization if our agents are shot down in the street one by one." He admitted his own fears. "I'm deeply concerned about this turn of events. It has never happened before, and I don't like it."

  "Clever enough idea," Illya put in. "But the methods seem too unsophisticated for Thrush."

  "I agree," Waverly said. "From the dramatic way he announced his supposed first victim, I'd say we're dealing with a madman."

  "Jolly," Solo muttered.

  "I'll find your nemesis for you, Napoleon," Il
lya reassured him. "I'll start by tracing this charm."

  "Then make it fast," Solo said. "I've never liked being caged. And remember the message on the back of the charm. The line for assassination forms right behind me, Illya."

  Illya gazed down at him dourly, and left the room, carrying the tiny coffin with him.

  Solo prepared to rise, too. "Well, if I've had your final word, Mr. Waverly, I may as well find a bed. Tomorrow I can start on some desk work - perhaps as contact or research director for an active agent."

  "No. I don't want you on anything vital in Section Two. As a matter of fact, I don't want you in Section Two at all. For your own safety, I prefer to have you as far away from your normal base as possible."

  Solo fought down his first flare of protest as he realized the implications of what his Chief had said. "I see. In case there's a spy in the ointment."

  "It's a possibility. Someone had to know your whereabouts in order to make those attacks possible. So to throw them off, I intend to move you out of their reach. How, I don't know, but I'll think about it. Now you get some sleep. Let me do the worrying."

  Solo stood up, a smile playing about his mouth. "I must say, that order is unusual. You'd better be careful, sir, or you'll become a father image."

  ---

  The room was small and shabby. The old parchment-shaded lamp cast a gloomy yellow light in a puddle on the rug, and sent fingers of illumination onto the faded wall paper. The furniture was overstuffed and ragged, giving a sure sense that a body settling down in it would produce puffs of dust from its depths. On the tables, on the chairs, on the floor, and everywhere, were stacked books. Old and new, red, green, and brown, they leaned precariously. There was no dust on them. They were well loved.

  Louie, the tall killer, and Robard, the short heavy fighter, stood silently in the dim light, watching the old man stalk about before them. Professor Adams pounded his feet down stiff-legged as he paced, hands flapping angrily at his sides. He was a frail man, white haired and wrinkled although he was only fifty-four years old. He had a perpetual squint from reading, and when he focused his eyes they never really focused because there was a glint in them that warned of madness.